


Who Am I, Without You?

by braedens



Series: 29 Different Love Stories [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Comfort/Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Scott McCall - Freeform, Pansexual Character, Physical Abuse, Sex Change, Surgery, Trans Stiles, Transgender, Transgender Stiles, and is very understanding, derek is a sweet boyfriend, not graphic but i still wantto tag it, okay everyone is happy at the end shhh, pansexual Derek, stiles is technically non-binary for a bit, transgender discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 10:23:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5924956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/braedens/pseuds/braedens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Day 3: trangender discovery and a lot of angst + sterek</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Am I, Without You?

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning: There is mention of some abuse, not graphic, but Stiles talks about it an all. Also, there is a lot of self-abuse in a verbal and emotonal way, Stiles really seeing himself negatively. 
> 
> Also, this is my first time writing with gender neutral pronouns, and I didn't have a beta, so if I made any mistakes please let me know!

Stiles blinks down at their reflection in the mirror.

The plaid shirt they wear, two sizes too big, is buttoned to their neck, sleeves falling past their fingertips. Their jeans are baggy and loose, and their sneakers are grungy and matted with dirt from all the dirt, mud and despair they’ve walked through. 

Their hair is wet from the shower that just took place, stuck to their forehead as beads of water roll over their cheeks. Whether they are from their hair or eyes, they’ll never know. 

Stiles blinks at their reflection, and only one thought runs through their mind:

_ I hate myself. _

* * *

Stiles always thought their life would be so much easier. When they were little, their only problem was if their mom would have made macaroni and cheese for dinner. Well, until their mother died. Then it was mostly trying to get their dad to  _ not  _ eat something as unhealthy as macaroni and cheese, especially of the box variety.

But, Stiles mom always got them. She always seemed to  _ know _ , even before they did. Their distinct memory of her taking them to the boys’ section of clothes the week before they started school again, or how she stayed away from ever suggesting gender-specific toys for them, always letting them choose (which led to Stiles getting Polly Pockets  _ and _ racecars because both were pretty awesome to them).    
  
So, when she was gone, so were they. They were lost, and what made everything worse was how their body started to do stupid things like  _ develop. _ And they hated it. Something felt wrong, off. And their mom wasn’t there to tell them, guide.    
  
When high school rolled around, the looming expectation of setting a standard stressed Stiles out to no end. They had a decision to make: either do what everyone expected, to dress super feminine, fit in, wear what the other girls wear. Or, be comfortable and face ridicule. 

Stiles liked to think they was tough enough for the latter.

Keyword, tough. 

At first, it seemed to work. Stiles cut all their hair off, buzzing it away. They wore baggy clothing, covering curves and pettiness. They joined a sports team, despite not actually having any athletic ability.  

They even made a best friend. 

Scott was nothing but smiles and giddiness. And Stiles couldn’t help the smile that grew on their face when he called them ‘dude’.

* * *

 

They wish, now, as a college sophomore, that someone would have warned them. Warned them about the body shaming. Warned them that bullies don’t leave after elementary school, and neither do your demons. Warned them that they would spend long nights in bed, crying, wishing there was someone in the world that would understand, that they weren’t alone. 

They wish someone would have told them that it’s okay to want to be a boy when you were born a girl. 

* * *

Stiles moves away from the mirror that hangs by their bedroom door, moving to the bathroom. Flashes of fists and sounds of harsh breaths go through their mind, and hurts more than what’s given. 

The cut above their eye is bleeding again, despite them cleaning it off in the shower, and they figure it’s no better time than now to disinfect it. They reach into their medicine cabinet for rubbing alcohol, and the small movement causes a wince and a sharp breath to leave them, breathing through clenched teeth. 

“Fuck,” they hiss, and they don’t even bother seeing the damage done there. Their body aches, head throbbing and they’re making little effort to mend it aside from the cotton ball that stings as they dab it along the gash over their right eyes.

There’s a knock on the bathroom door, but Stiles knows who it is before they answer. “Go away.”

The handle turns anyway, and before they can lock it, it’s being pushed open. 

“Stiles, why haven’t you been answ- Oh my god.”   
  
Derek still has his hand on the knob, and his eyes go wide at the site before him, and frankly, Stiles can’t blame him; they gave him a view.    
  
Patches of blue and purple and red cover their neck and face, and the cut is fresh on their forehead, not to mention the swollen lip. But, trust them, they don’t look as bad as they feel. 

Derek doesn’t say anything, like most times, but he crosses over so quickly, and suddenly Stiles is enveloped in his arms, their head completely covered and all they can see is darkness, and all they smell is the spring fresh scent of Derek’s shirt. Before they can help it, their eyes become damp, and they know they are ruining Derek’s shirt, but he doesn’t seem to mind, because as soon as Stiles breaks into a shudder, his arms move impossible closer, encasing Stiles so that they could somehow make a home in those very arms.    
  
Stiles doesn’t notice how they’ve moved, slowly, to their bed, until they feel their knees against the frame, and soon their wrapped in their comforter, Derek sitting up against the bedframe and slotting Stiles in between his legs, a protective arm wrapped around their chest. And Stiles finally lets all the pain, remorse, anger, frustration, and any other emotion they bottled up out, bringing their hands up to grab at Derek’s arm, body shaking recklessly.    
  
Stiles is scared. Stiles has been dating Derek for only a few months, bonding over a mixed order at their favorite restaurant, and the slight recognition from a Public Speaking class they both took the semester prior. For the most part, people usually mistook Stiles as a boy: they wore a binder, their hair was moppy and cut masculine, and they stuck to baggy clothes. And, truth be told, at that point, Stiles had finally come to admit that they weren’t comfortable with being called a girl, which was a huge step forward in their life. So, when they met Derek, and decided to sit together to finish their meal, they wondered if the sudden feeling of admiration that had fluttered in their stomach was one to focus on. For all Derek knew, Stiles was a boy. 

Surprisingly, Derek had asked for their number at the end of the meal, and added on a surprising twist.    
  
“I’d like to go out again with you, soon.” Derek said, whilst he had been so chivalrous as to walk Stiles to their car. 

Stiles had to stop because, no. People don’t just ask them out.    
  
“Uh, really?” they were tentative. Something felt like a trap. 

Derek laughed, and his smile was bright and dazzling. “Yeah, man.”   
  
Stiles cringed, their nose wrinkling. He might as well not beat around the bush. 

“They,” they mumbled, eyes downcasting to the hood of their jeep. 

“Excuse me?” Derek offered politely, and when Stiles looked up, he seemed concerned, and even hopeful.

“They. Them. My pronouns are ‘they, them, their’.”

But Derek was unphased. If anything, it made the man happier. “Okay,” he nodded, taking a step closer, his smile wide. “Yeah, friend. I do want to go out with you.” Stiles blinked up at him, at how easy and unphased it was for Derek to say. It didn’t even bother him. He didn’t even ask Stiles the notorious “Well, are you a boy or girl?”.    
  
Stiles had never nodded so fast in their life.

 

So, yeah, they was scared, because something was bubbling up in Stiles that they scared the hell out of them. And as Derek holds them, they wonder how long this moment could last before things start to fall apart. Because, they know Derek is pan, and that Derek would probably kick a puppy before he let anything happen to Stiles, but Stiles can only help but think that Derek will tolerate so much.    
  
They’ve calmed down a fair amount, only shaky breaths leaving them as Derek holds them tight.    
  
“What happened?” Derek whispers, feather light, but it’s so loud to Stiles. 

They nuzzle in closer to Derek, hoping that if this is going to be the last night, they might as well cherish it, even if their body aches tremendously.   
  
“The fraternity members,” they start, voice so low and muffled by Derek’s shirt. they’d be surprised if he didn’t hear it. “They caught me when I was walking back from the library.” Small bits of the night come back to them; the yelling, the slurs, the kicking. “They started yelling at me, calling me names. When I yelled at them to stop,” Stiles lets out a shaky breath. “They started to beat me up.” They grit it out, the rush of anger coming back to them. 

“Stiles,” Derek starts, but Stiles vehemently shakes their head, pushing up from Derek’s hold. “No, Derek. I’m so  _ sick _ of this,” they snarl, can’t even bring themselves to look at him. “I’m so, so sick of feeling wrong. And being treated like I’m wrong. And being wrong!” The tears that leave their eyes sting, and they clench their fists. “Look at my face, look at it!” they practically yell, and when they meet Derek’s eyes, they sees darkness and sorrow, like just the sight of them makes him crumble. 

“Derek, I don’t want to be like this anymore,” their voice shatters, low and breathy and broken. 

Derek is tentative, like he is almost always, and he reaches from his spot on the bed to take Stiles hand in his.  To his surprise, Stiles doesn’t pull away. “Like what?”   
  
The way he asks is so powerful, yet so sincere. He puts longing and knowing into the question, and Stiles think they might crack, might burst if they don’t just say whatever the hell they’re thinking. 

“I want to get surgery. I want to be a boy.”

It feels like they just drowned, any hope of air in their lungs has vanished, and has been left with the feeling of suffocation.    
  
“Okay,”   
  
But Stiles feels the tears welling up in their eyes again. “I can’t do this, I’m not strong enough. I can’t keep lying to everyone, lying to myself. And I tell myself it’s fine because I don’t want to be alone, but I’m not. I’m not, I’m not I’m n-”   
  
“Stiles!” Derek beckons, his voice strong as he places his arms on their shoulders. An anchor at sea, holding them in. “Stiles, I said okay. It’s okay.”    
  
“Okay?” Stiles says, innocence in their voice. They meet his eyes, and his vision is blurred from the tears, but they can almost feel Derek’s soft smile. The asshole, always knowing what to do, and when.  

He nods. “Okay. All of it, okay. If you want to get surgery, you should. If you want to change your name legally, you should.” They’ve never seen Derek so stern, so direct. It’s endearing. “Whatever you need to do, it’s okay. I’m not going to leave you alone.”   
  
Their heart surges, because Derek is  _ supportive _ and  _ wholesome _ , and they’ve never had that with anyone since their mother. Even Scott is timid sometimes, unsure of how to react and approach when they are upset. 

  
  
Derek is there, like he is every time Stiles feels defeated. There when they start to doubt themselves, and there when they are filled with anger. 

And he’s there when Stiles decided to make an appointment with a specialist.

He’s there when Stiles starts hormone therapy. 

He’s still there six months later, six months of doctor’s visit, hormone shots, mood swings, all of it, when Stiles is finally ready for their surgeries.    
  
And he’s there when Stiles wakes up the next day in a hospital bed, tubes and lines attached all over them, eyes heavy. He’s sitting right there, next to them, a hand on their forehead brushing the hair away. 

 

“How do I look?” Stiles says groggily, turning their head. They mean it as a joke, but they wonder if Derek will take it literal.    
  
Derek pauses, but his eyes never move from theirs. “Beautiful as ever.”

His eyes are glistening, wet for a reason that surpasses Stiles, but his smile is wide and soft, the same one Stiles feels himself getting lost in.    
  
“C’mere,” they gesture slowly, moving over on the bed so Derek can fit in the space of his side, his arm reaching to rest over Stiles stomach, tentatively. Derek rests his head in the space of Stiles neck, and Stiles takes the opportunity to nose at his head, taking in the scent of water and whatever hippie shampoo Derek has taken to. Probably something with ‘spring’ in the name. 

“How do you feel?” His arms pull tighter, pulling them closer together. 

And, honestly, Stiles is surprised at their lack of emotion. They were sure they’d be a mess of tears and snot everywhere once they woke up. But all they have, sitting there with the person they love the most, their dad and Scott probably mulling around the cafeteria, and the feel of bandages around their chest, is comfort. Exhilaration. Relief. Because it’s the start of a better future.    
  
Stiles smiles, and presses their lips to Derek’s, soft and warm, and they wonder if he can feel the buzz running through their skin. 

“I feel _ right.” _   


**Author's Note:**

> this work is part of my month long project called "29 Different Love Stories"
> 
> read more about it on my [tumblr](http://braedens.tumblr.com/)


End file.
